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The last time we spokeyou asked me when the end was coming.I didn’t have a good answer for you,wasn’t even quite sure what you meantby the question, the end of what? Of time,of your life or mine, or merely the endof a conversation we had beencarrying on for as long as either of us could remember.That was some time agoand I have thought aboutyour question quite frequentlyand seeing you today,you walking by me without acknowledging me,I realize the answer should have been and most certainly now isthat the end camethe moment youstarted your question.

Hope lies, she says, somewherebetween anticipation and boredom,and in the daily muck and mireso few want to look closely enoughto discover its presence, though itpromises deeply desired rewards.He says he prefers faith, for itrequires less work, just statethe desired outcome and believe,as deeply as you can, thatit will result in due course.She says that the differencesbetween them are too great,and the time has come to splitfrom each other, and she has faithhe will handle the split well.He is shocked and says that he only hopes that shewill come to her senses and stay.

“You know,” she said, “it is the critics,they are the real problem, all holy and self-proclaimed arbiters of taste,deciding what is and is not art, as ifGod spoke late one night and declaredto each one that he or she and onlyhe or she would determine what is art.”I wanted to argue with her, but Iwas standing in a gallery where the signs requested silence, thatand I really had no argument with what she said, for I knewthat taste was personal, that arthad no hard metrics, this is, this isn’t,there is no ruler, no gauge, no scale.Add to that the fact that Itruly love exotic mushrooms, morels,enoki, the odder the better, and shefinds all fungus disgusting, belongingin its earthly grave, and though wrong,it is her taste after all, so there it is.

He said to her, “you knowit really irritates me how youalways seem to repeat yourself.Say it once and that’s enough.”She paused, thought about his comment,then said, “You know, despitewhat you say, I don’t, I don’t really, but nuance is something that always seemsjust beyond your comprehension.”He bristled, “You could be more subtle, you know, perhapsit is always on the thin edgeof my comprehension, but getspushed way by the repetitive battering you feel the needto impart, over and over.”She smiled, “I doubt it,I truly and sincerely doubt it.”

My ancestors stole your tongueand left you mute in a worldyou could not grasp. Nowas I search for words of forgivenessI can find none, for my voiceis clogged with foreign phrasesthat once told of your ancestorswho lived amid these rocks.We schooled you, stealingyour spirit, which whispers to usas the sun climbs slowlyover the great stone set deepinto the endless desert.When the wind comes downfrom the north, it sings a songwhich cuts through our coatsand deeply into our bones.There is no one who will claim uswhen we are plundered for displayin some museum, no one to singa blessing to ward off the spiritsthat will haunt us into the next life.The ghosts of your people walkamong us and we can, at last,hear their whispered entreatiescarried on the wind deep into the canyon.

The thing he wants mostis to experience life and all it offers.By that he means he wants to seewhat is there, to smell it, to engageit with all of his senses, for those are what he trusts, theyprovide him reality, without themhis mind could not frame the moment.The thing she wants mostis to be in life, an integralpart of what is offered, tobe indistinguishable from life,so that they eyes cannot see it,the nose cannot smell it,the mind cannot frame anything,for she is that thing and that moment and there isnothing else, except perhaps himstaring, sniffing and cataloginghis own illusory world.

His is six and deeply confused,and asks questions to end that state.He wants to know if Adam and Eve had two sons, and one killed the other,where did all of the people come from?Ask your father seems and easy answer,but one he cannot accept, too easyfor a mind that needs timely response.I stumble around, try to deflect, and finally admit I don’t know butthat some stories cannot be taken literally.He knows what that word means, and itis a sufficient explanation for now.In a week we’ll have the conversationonce again, this time not Adam, not Eve,but Shem, Ham and Japheth, and howthe three sons of Noah repopulatedthe entire planet, and I will once againadmit to my sad lack of knowledge,and silently curse the Religious Schoolfor creating the abyss into whichmy grandson is all to pleased to lead me.